Wrong
by thebutterfliesarewilting
Summary: You really do hate this. You're beginning to wish you never came here, like Randy, but here you are, in the flesh. Paul Holden's view.


**a/n This is in 2****nd**** person perspective. It's my first try at doing this in 2****nd**** person, so I'm sorry if it is terrible. It's in Paul Holden's point of view. And I do hope you enjoy it and review. It would make me so happy. Also, I do not think I will be continuing this. I think I shall keep it as a one-shot. And sorry for any mistakes I missed. So, go, read on!**

You hate this, this mess of fights and rumbles and threats. You keep wishing you didn't show up, like Randy. You know it's wrong. But you had to show up, you tell yourself, because what would your friends think of you? And right then, you know why Greasers hate you. You don't care about anyone or anything other than yourself and you're reputation. It's disgusting.

You were Bob's friend, you try to tell yourself, trying to condone what you're doing, but it's doesn't work. So was Randy. Randy was better friends with Bob than anyone else, and he was the only one who wasn't here. Why did everything have to be such a mess? You begin wishing you were a middle class kid, you wouldn't have to be in this shit. They stay out of all these fights and all the mess that society causes.

You notice the fight will begin soon, you step up to face Darry, you know he remembers you, too. He's looking you up and down, sizing you up. He doesn't know you feel bad, that you hate this. And he hates you. And you completely understand. You would hate yourself too. You do hate yourself.

He was a good buddy of yours, too. You both played on the football team, and he was good. Real good. He didn't play for fun, he played to win. And he was smart and not just street smart, school smart. And you feel bad, because he couldn't go to college because he had to take in his kid brothers and you got to go.

You remember when his folks died. It was all over the news. You saw him walking down the street a week after the funeral, and he looked so… so….so broken, defeated. You had wanted to run up to him, to say you were sorry, everything would be ok, that it would all work out in the end. But you couldn't. You were with 'friends'. You can't believe that stopped you. A bunch of, well, a bunch of selfish people stopped you from comforting an old friend. Isn't that just terrible? You just wanted more than anything to feel good about yourself, and now you just hate yourself more than ever.

And that kid, that kid that was lying in a hospitable bed dying. You don't know what you thought about that. You did tell Bob not to go after them; that the stunt at the movies was nothing. But he just wouldn't listen to you, and he ran off. He got what was coming to him. You'll admit, he didn't deserve to die, no one did, but still, he should have thought better about his actions. He tried to drown a kid! A fourteen year old! And now, here, you see the kid, and he just looked terrible. Broken, broken beyond repair.

You start to question yourself. What are you doing? It was just some stupid Greaser? They all were. You have to be loyal to the Soc's. They were your side. They were better and everyone knew it.

You don't know what sickens you more; the fact that you're second guessing yourself or that you care. And it scares you. It terrifies you.

Then you hear someone yell. Something about rumbles without him. Darry looks away for a second, and you throw a punch, because the others will notice if you don't. You have to make this look realistic. The fight is on.

You keep your fist flying through the air, hitting your knuckles against his skin, but you aren't going to hard. You already knew he would kick your rich Soc ass, but you just speed it along, because you really just don't want to be here. You want to ruin the Soc's. The Greasers deserve this. They deserve this chance.

While 'fighting' Darry (and he really is going hard on you) you _accidently_ trip some of the kids from the West Side. And really this big brawl seems to last forever. But soon you hear people running and you know it means the Greasers won. You just know. So you run too. Straight to your car. You don't let anyone else in; you just tear off into the night.

You go to your house, looking though the drawers, digging for where ever you step father hides his booze money. You find it in the bottom bathroom cabinet. Why he keeps it there, you don't know and you don't care. You shove some cash in your mom's purse, grab a suitcase full of clothes, a picture of your family, before Dad died, and you leave again. And you are most certainly not coming back. You'd probably end up killing yourself. Whether you meant literally or figuratively, you didn't care. You just couldn't afford to stay here anymore. This place destroyed you.

You don't know where you are going. You really don't care. Maybe you can find a place without Greasers or Soc's, just nice green grass and peace and all the other things you've dreamed of. But for now, you'll just have to drive 'til you run out of gas. And maybe that will be the place you stay, or maybe, you'll have to keep going, but someday, you'll find a place that's just right. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long. But if it does, you have time, and you can wait it out. Anywhere is better than Tulsa right now.


End file.
